Paul
Stuart sat in his car at the end of the driveway, smoking and
staring at the house on the hill, as he had been doing for the
past few afternoons. The imposing house reflected to a
degree the neglect into which most of these old, once-elegant
country houses had descended. A large square house with a
front portico on the crown of the hill, it definitely retained the
mien of its aristocratic past. The gutters needed repair,
though, and a few brief yellow stains crept down the white brick
walls. Chips in the green paint of the shutters appeared
even from this distance. Paul wondered if Mrs. Boyd would
paint it. If not, it didn’t look too bad. Paul
took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.
No use sitting here, he thought. I’m not accomplishing
anything this way. He started the car, took a last long look
at the house, and backed out of the driveway onto the highway.
As he drove into town, he tried to force the house out of his
mind, but no matter what he pushed into his mind, the house
reasserted itself as the dominant image. He knew that he
would spend the entire weekend thinking of nothing else.

“Good
morning, Rand,” Paul said as he opened the office door.
“How was the weekend?”

“I
finished grading a set of themes,” Rand glanced up from his
book. “How was yours?”

“Uneventful--as
always.”

Rand
returned to his book for a moment but then laid it on the desk.
He stared across the room at Paul. “Did you make a
decision?”

“No--not
really.”

“You
have to today, don’t you?”

“Yes.
I have an appointment with Mrs. Boyd at four o’clock.

“What
do you think you’ll do?”

“I
. . . I’m not certain. I may take it.”

Rand
glanced at his closed book and halfway opened the cover as though
he were going to read again. He and Paul had discussed the
house several times since last Wednesday, when Paul first learned
that the house was available. Paul discussed everything with
Rand. He had been placed in the office with him when he
first came here three years ago, and Rand had automatically become
his closest friend. Paul didn’t make friends easily.
He waited for people to come to him, but he projected an austere
image, and most people didn’t bother. As he had been
forced upon Rand, though, he had opened up to him more than to
anyone else here. Paul sometimes marveled at the fact
because they were almost complete opposites and disagreed on just
about everything. Paul thought the standards at the school
were too low; Rand didn’t agree. Paul thought it an
injustice to pass students who actually were not capable of
college work; Rand, an injustice to fail them. Paul liked
Bach; Rand, Bluegrass. Paul always wore a coat and tie to
class; Rand, never. And on and on. But Paul liked Rand
and usually listened to his advice.

Paul
saw that Rand was only fingering the book. “You don’t
think I should, do you?”

Rand
took a deep breath. “Paul, I don’t--I mean it’s
none of my business. You have to do what you think is best.”

“But
you really don’t think I should.”

“I
. . . just can’t see why you need such a big house.”

“It’s
not all that big. I mean the rooms are large, but there
aren’t many.”

“It’s
a pretty big house.”

“You’re
right. I don’t need all the space, of course, but I
could keep the upstairs closed. That should work fine for
me, and it would probably help with the heat bill.”

“If
you’re not planning to use all the house, why not look for a
smaller one?”

“I
need large rooms, or at least one large room. My piano, you
know, is seven feet long, and when you stuff a piano that large
into a small room with low ceilings it doesn’t sound good
and it doesn’t look good. One of those large rooms out
there with the high ceiling would just be perfect.”

“Why
not get a smaller piano?”

“I
can’t practice on a spinet, for God’s sake.”

“Why
not?”

“Because
the action and the tone--Oh, you’re not a pianist. You
wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re
not either.”

Paul
jerked his head up almost as though he had been slapped.

“I
mean not a professional pianist. For Christ’s sake,
Paul, you’re an English teacher.”

“So
I should stop playing the piano?”

“I
didn’t say that. Of course you should continue, but
you act like it was your career.”

“I
had planned for it to be.”

“Then
why didn’t you go on with it?”

“I
. . . I wasn’t good enough, not good enough to be a
professional.”

“Did
someone tell you that, or did you decide it?”

“I
decided.”

“O.K.
You decided. You changed your major. You planned your
career.”

“But
I can’t give up that Baldwin. It was my carrot all
through graduate school--all through the dissertation.”

“To
lease a house you can’t afford for the sake of a piano you
don’t really need seems to me to have things a bit out of
focus. You could keep the apartment and get a smaller
piano.”

“Well,
I think I should get a house to fit the piano, not a piano to fit
the house.” He paused. “I’ve got to
do something. I’m sick of sleeping with my feet under
the piano.”

Rand
appeared to be suppressing a smile. “That was clever
to put the piano in the bedroom.”

“It’s
the only place I could put it unless I didn’t want any
furniture in the living room.”

“And
only in the bedroom with the foot of the bed under it.”
Rand chuckled.

“Yes,
God, wall to wall piano.” Paul took out a cigarette
and lit it. “It’s not just the space, though.
I can’t play as much as I want or when I want. I
certainly can’t play late at night, which is the time I like
best. Up on that hill out there away from everyone I could
play until three o’clock in the morning if I wanted to.
Besides, I like old houses. I always have. An old
house has charm and personality, and one doesn’t come
available just every day. It seems I should have some
pleasure here. I don’t enjoy my work, that’s for
sure. Lazy students who won’t do any work. But
they’re certainly willing to yelp about grades. They
drive me crazy. Some of them even come in here at night
while I’m trying to work just to argue. They don’t
want to listen to an explanation of why they got the grade, just
argue that they deserve better.” He exhaled some smoke
with a hissing sound.

“Why
didn’t you go somewhere else?”

“You
know damn well why I didn’t,” Paul snapped.

“That’s
the point. Since this was the only offer you had, maybe you
should be happy to have it.”

“I
am.” Paul spoke more calmly. “I’m
fortunate, I know. Some of the people who finished when I
did still haven’t found a teaching job.” Raising
his hands in a helpless gesture, he continued, “But, Lord, a
regional university in a state famed for its low academic
standards. I wanted to go to a good school--maybe one of
those private schools with stiff entrance requirements.”

“But
you didn’t. Perhaps you should make the best of what
you’ve got here.”

“I
do,” Paul spoke defensively. “I try.”

“O.K.
O.K. Let’s say you have some reason for wanting the
house. But you told me yourself that you can’t afford
it.”

“I
can’t right now. But if . . if things go as I hope, I
think I’ll be able to.”

“That’s
the trouble, though. Nothing is settled yet.”

“I
know. Damn! I wish that committee had already made the
recommendations.”

“I
imagine the committee has. Hulett just hasn’t gotten
around to giving the reports yet.”

“Yeah,
I’m sure you’re right. The Bastard--naturally he
would be the one to hold things up. Especially for me--he
doesn’t like me anyway.”

“He
has a lot to do. After all, Christ, he’s the chairman
of the department. And you know he has to meet with the dean
to review each case before he can give the reports.”

“Yeah,
yeah, I know.” Paul pushed his hair up from the left
side. He had begun parting his hair lower on the side in an
effort to cover a receding hairline, but the hair from the side
only drifted back and pulled some from the top, making the
hairline appear more receding. Paul constantly pushed at his
forehead, particularly when he was agitated or nervous. His
students had listed this distracting mannerism on the last
evaluation. “Say,” he continued, “do you
suppose that if I went and talked with Hulett--told him the
situation--he would tell me what they’ve recommended?”

“I
wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“No,
I suppose not. Damn, damn. Everything is so
uncertain.”

“That’s
just what I said. It seems to me that it’s too
uncertain, too risky for you to take a chance. Didn’t
you tell me you’d have to sign a five-year lease?”

“Yes.”

“Whew.
That could cause you a lot of trouble if--if the committee . . .
I mean Louise and I didn’t even think about buying a house
until I got tenure.”

“It’s
not tenure so much I’m worried about. It’s the
promotion.”

Rand’s
eyes narrowed as he looked at Paul. “But that is
something to think about.”

“Surely
you don’t think-“

“Christ,
Paul, I don’t know. I don’t-it’s none of
my business.”

“Tell
me. What do you think?”

“Gosh,
Paul, Christ, forget it. I don’t know.”

“I
want to know.”

Rand
hesitated and bit his lower lip. Then he began slowly,
uncertainly. “You . . . you don’t have any
publications.”

Paul
winced. Some of the other assistant professors who had come
here at the same time had pulled an article or two from their
dissertations. Paul, though, revised his entire
dissertation, planning to publish it as a book. He had
finished the manuscript last October, but as yet had not found a
publisher for it. “They say this is a teaching
school--they don’t emphasize publications,” he
grumbled.

“But
publications help.”

“All
right. That’s one point against me.” Rand
remained silent, but Paul prompted, “What else?”

“Ah,
you . . . said they emphasize teaching here.”

“I
work hard in my classes!” Paul tried to control his
anger. “I give the students something worthwhile.
Good Lord, some of the people here don’t do anything.”

“I
agree--on both counts. But . . . you know how it is here.
The administration likes to see the teacher as the students’
friend. Being popular with the students is very important.”
Rand spoke slowly, cautiously still. “And a great deal
of importance is placed on grade curves.”

Paul
sat up and slammed his hand on the desk. “I am honest
and fair with my grades! I dare anybody to challenge that.”

“Yes,
I know you are. But you’ve failed 30 to 40 percent of
every class you’ve had since you’ve been here.”

“Nincompoops
who didn’t do any work. I didn’t just fail
them--they didn’t do anything.”

“Christ,
Paul, you expect too much.”

“I
can’t pass some son-of-a-bitch who tells me that Everyman
is the best play Shakespeare wrote, or one who spells medieval
three different ways within one paragraph.” Paul’s
voice was rising.

“All
right, all right. You have to do it your way. I know
that. But you asked me what I thought. I’m just
trying to be honest. You’ve got to be realistic.”

“I’m
not angry with you.” Paul relaxed in his chair.
“It’s just that I’m on edge. I’ve
worried so much about this thing. You’re right.
I’m not popular here . . . I certainly know that.
Hulett doesn’t like me because I’ve caused him
problems, all those students going to him about their grades.
But still I can’t believe that he would . . . get rid of
me. I don’t crusade for reform or get involved in
politics or anything like that. And I can’t help
thinking that at least someone appreciates the fact that I work
hard in my classes. The main reason I haven’t gotten
anything ready for publication, except the dissertation, is that I
spend so much time preparing lectures and writing comments on
student papers.”

Rand
glanced at his watch, got up, and began loading his briefcase.
“I’ve got a class--I have to go. I’m sure
that many people appreciate your work. Just . . . just
forget what I said. You have to make your own decisions.
Just forget it, O.K.?”

“I
appreciate what you’ve said, Rand. I appreciate your
being honest with me. It’s just that . . . that—O.K.”

Rand
closed his briefcase, picked up his coffee jug, and opened the
door. “What time is your appointment with Mrs. Boyd?”

“Four
o’clock.”

“Oh,
well, I’ll probably see you again before then. If not,
do what you think is best.”

“Sure.”

Paul
turned in his chair to stare out the window as Rand closed the
door.

“Oh,
it’s so quiet and peaceful out there, and the air is clean
and pure. Why, you just feel like you’re on top of the
world. You know my great-grandfather built that place.”

“Yes’m,
you told me.”

“And
it’s been in the Beckwith family ever since. If I had
my way, my husband and I would be living there today. But
Mr. Boyd prefers to live here in town, and naturally I have to do
what he wants. But it is a dear place. I know you’ll
take care of it for me, Mr. Stuart.”

“I’ll
certainly try.”

“I
never rent it to anyone unless I feel that they will love the
place and take care of it just like I would. That’s
why I insist on a five-year lease--so I know there’s a real
commitment.”

“Yes’m.”

“Well
now, when will you be able to get moved in?”

“Let’s
see . . . it’s the fifteenth today-“ Paul broke
off, the Ides of March. It had not occurred to him.
“Ah,” he continued, “I’ll plan to move on
the twenty-sixth. That’ll give me almost two weeks to
get things packed and make the arrangements.”

Fine,
fine. The sooner, the better. I don’t like to
leave the place vacant any longer than I have to. Oh, let me
get the keys for you.” She opened a desk drawer.
“Here they are. Each one has a label so you’ll
know which doors they fit.”

“Thank
you.”

“I
hope you will be happy, Mr. Stuart, and I know you will be.
No one can be sad on Beckwith Hill.”

Pray
God you’re right, Paul thought. He said, “I’m
certain I will be. I’ve admired that place ever since
I came here.”

“And
now it’s your home, Mr. Stuart. Isn’t that
grand?”

“Yes’m.”

“Well,
now, is there anything else? Do you have any questions?”

“No,
I don’t think so. I’ll call you if I think of
something later.”

“Please
do. I’m here most of the time.”

“Well,
good day, and thank you.”

“Thank
you, Mr. Stuart, thank you. Here, I’ll walk you to the
door.”

Paul
said good day again at the door and then hurried down the walk.
It was a chilly, damp day, and Paul pulled his coat closer around
him as he rushed to the car. He wanted to feel elated, but
couldn’t. In fact, he began to feel depressed, and a
knot began to develop in his stomach. He decided to drive
out to the house and look at the rooms again and plan where he
would put things although he had already arranged them in his
mind.

Parking
at the front steps, Paul got out and gazed at the countryside
below. Beautiful, he thought. Then he climbed the
steps and put the key in the front door. The weather had
been damp for the past several days, and the wood had swelled so
that he couldn’t turn the key. He struggled for
several minutes. “Damn! Wouldn’t you know
it-wouldn’t you just know it,” he muttered. He
pulled out the key and grimaced as he looked at the door.
Remembering that Mrs. Boyd had taken him in the kitchen door when
she showed him the house, he hurried around to the back.

That
key turned easily, and Paul stepped inside, still annoyed because
he couldn’t open the front door. He ambled through the
rooms, visualizing in each the furniture which he had already
mentally placed. Everything would fit as he had planned.
He stopped for a long while at the spot where the piano would go.
It would be perfect, just perfect. He marveled again at the
woodwork and the fireplaces, but he couldn’t rid himself of
his depression.

The
power was off, so there was no heat. After a while, chilled,
Paul decided to drive back to town and have a drink at his
apartment before dinner. He hoped the drink would warm him
and make him feel better. Maybe even feel like celebrating.
He intended to try the front door from the inside, but he stopped
in the entrance hall and turned back to the kitchen. At the
car he leaned with his hand on the door handle and looked at the
house. “It’s got to work--it has to work,”
he said softly and got into the car.

As
he pulled onto the highway at the end of the drive, he recognized
the driver of an approaching car--a student in one of his
classes. Paul raised his hand to wave, but the boy stared
determinedly straight ahead at the highway.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Paul muttered as he lowered his
hand. “Son-of-a-bitch.” He pulled his coat
closer around him, but the chill seemed to have penetrated his
bones and he shivered inwardly as he settled back for the drive
into town.

Robert
W. Witt, a member of the faculty at Eastern Kentucky
University, has published four novels in addition to plays and
scholarly books. His stories and articles have appeared in
numerous journals, including The Wooster Review, San Jose
Studies, Southern Literary Journal, Shakespeare Bulletin, Hamlet
Studies, and others. His plays have been performed at The
Attic Ensemble, Jersey City, NJ; The Writers' Theatre,
Farmingdale, NY; FirstStage, Los Angeles; and other theaters. He
is working on a fifth novel and seving as managing editor of The
Chaffin Journal, an annual literary review published at
Eastern Kentucky University.

Copyright
2006, Robert W. Witt. This work is protected under the U.S.
copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused,
or altered without the expressed written permission of the
author.